


Mr. June

by PalenDrome (nerdherderette)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Anal Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Humor, Hung!Kylo, Inspired By Tumblr, Locker Room Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Oblivious Hux, Pinups, Prompt Fill, Size Kink, Tumblr: kyluxhardkinks, bottom!Hux, top!Kylo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-08 17:25:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11086401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdherderette/pseuds/PalenDrome
Summary: A fill for thisKylux hardkinks prompt:The First Order releases an annual spicy pinup calendar featuring stormtroopers, officers, pilots etc. Hux thinks it's stupid until he hears that Ren is going to be featured in it (bonus points if Hux has never seen Kylo without his mask and robes)[excerpt]:A simple loincloth barely covers the outline of his mouth-watering length, his stomach ripples with muscles Hux never knew even existed, and his chest and biceps are deliciously thick.  His hands are enormous and strong—meat hooks that look like they could span Hux’s waist.  A simple gold collar encircles the man’s neck, connected to a thin, gold chain.In short, Mr. June looks like someone who had stepped out of a holoporn, and into Hux’s wet dream.





	Mr. June

**Author's Note:**

> 6/1/17 (9:13PM EST): _I like the disclaimer: "All gay gladiators and manservants are consenting adults."_
> 
> This silliness was borne from an incredible prompt, RL Kindle listings for cheesy gay erotica, and a chat thread (sample above) that—unlike the creation of this calendar—can't be blamed on the effects of alcohol. Dearest Anon: I knew I had to write this the second I read your amazing prompt!
> 
> P.S. All activity between gladiators and officers are consensual in this fic.

 

 

It is always with a sense of dread that Hux approaches the last several months of the year.  The end of the year means reconciling expenses, drawing up new plans and strategies, annual personnel reviews, and a host of holidays spreading gaiety and cheer.  Which in turn brings reprimands and disciplinary action, additional expense reports, and revisions to the aforementioned plans.

Hux looked up, his eyes narrowing as a small stack of folders land on his desk with a resounding _thunk_.

“Here’s the latest batch for your approval, Sir.”

Hux suppresses the urge to sigh, choosing to greet Phasma with a pinched look instead as he eyes the portfolio with distaste.

 _This_ was the biggest reason why he hates the end of the year, and _this_ was why booze and a sardonic sense of humor were never a good mix.

His mind strays back to that fateful day. He had sat, watching as the straightlaced officers under his command grew progressively disheveled and loose.  As troopers and commanders, technicians and engineers, and countless others of all occupational and sexual designations fully embraced the meaning of _Happy Holidays_ and _esprit de corps_.  When the official First Order photographer had interrupted Hux’s fifth serving of Corellian brandy to demand a photograph—a _selfie_ , of some sort—Hux had politely informed the snap-happy shutterbug that any additional pictures would need to be recompensed to the Public Relations Department for material waste.

It was a gross miscalculation, as the photographer proved to be much more inventive and resourceful than Hux had previously thought.  _The First Order Calendar_ had been a certifiable hit, and after having been credited (falsely) with the idea, Hux was unceremoniously thrust into the dubious role of its editor-in-chief.

Although Hux would never admit it, the calendar definitely had its perks.  The first printing added a significant amount of money to the First Order’s coffers, and there was a noticeable uptick in morale following the display of all the comely men and women who were dedicated to fighting on the First Order’s side.  Even Hux had not been immune—seeing Mr. January in a state of dishabille was practically love at first sight.  Once he had finished dragging his tongue back into his mouth, Hux had proceeded to systematically seduce the pilot whose spread—and burgeoning assets—had created such a huge stir.

Actually, “huge” may have been a bit too generous.  The first-hand discovery of the propensity of the First Order photographers for airbrushing and photoshopping was a (non)painful and awkward one.  It resulted in an encounter so thoroughly disappointing, that Hux had reassigned the hapless pilot to one of the Outer Rim territories the very next day.

But Hux’s aversion towards the calendar transcended issues of duplicity and time.  The worst was the invariably tacky and tawdry themes which were devised to drum up interest, in each successive year.

Following the inaugural edition complete with traditional First Order Uniforms, it was decided that all future editions would be dedicated to planets that had fallen under Imperial control.  The sophomore calendar was an ill-advised tribute to Naboo—a mistake, as the denizens’ elaborate clothing not only took a tremendous amount of time and resources to recreate, but the voluminous layers and heavy-handed makeup ended up hiding those very things that had made the calendar such a success in the first place.

Hux is also positive that buried somewhere in the recesses of the First Order’s prop department, is a massive collection of ghastly wigs.

The third iteration attempted to make up for the previous year’s misstep by aiming for the opposite end of the spectrum.  The calendar’s tribute to the water planet of Lamaredd was filled with splashy pictures of tentacled beings and merfolk.  While this may have solved the problem of bare skin—at least from the torso up—there were still a significant number of buyers who fell out of the niche appreciation of extra appendages and scales.

This year, the brilliant minds at PR declared the theme to be “The History of the Earth.”  Once Hux realized that he couldn't will the pile of photographs away, he finally picked them up.

He quickly rifled through the top of the pile with a bored look on his face.  “The usual offenders?”

“Of course.  As well as some new ones, Sir,” Phasma added with a slight blush.

Hux raised a perfectly arched brow, slowing his perusal.  There’s Unamo, spilling out of a tightly laced corset, the swelling of her bosom and cherry tips of her nipples subtly enhanced.  Mitaka and Thanisson are dressed as Viking warriors, with Thanisson gripping his Mjölnir while coming dangerously close to becoming impaled by Mitaka’s longsword.

Hux’s brow arched even higher as he unveiled the next photo.  It's Phasma, dressed as Hippolyta, draped in an exomie and brandishing a hoplon and spear.

Hux coughed appreciatively.  “Good show, Captain.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Phasma replied.  The modesty slid from her face, replaced by an appreciative leer as she suddenly spots Mr. June.  “Well, hello there!”

Hux’s eyes dart down.  His mouth goes dry as he greedily takes in the model’s well-muscled body and glistening, oiled skin.

The man was _beautiful._  His hair is glossy and thick, rivaling the likes of Samson as it hangs in luxurious waves next to his beguiling face.  His eyes are brooding and mysterious, a glorious tawny brown.  His nose is aquiline and strong, its length leading Hux’s gaze to the man’s sinfully plush lips.  The costumers had dressed him as a Roman gladiator, but what the man wears would not last a second in the ring.  A simple loincloth barely covers the outline of his mouth-watering length, his stomach ripples with muscles Hux never knew even existed, and his chest and biceps are deliciously thick.  His hands are enormous and strong—meat hooks that look like they could span Hux’s waist.  A simple gold collar encircles the man’s neck, connected to a thin, gold chain.

In short, Mr. June looks like someone who had stepped out of a holoporn, and into Hux’s wet dream.

The lines of Hux’s trousers suddenly grow a bit too tight.  “Captain.”  Hux clears his throat; it doesn’t work.  “He’s one of ours?”

Phasma thankfully ignores the hoarseness that has crept into Hux’s voice.  “All of the personnel in that file are, Sir.  Everyone has had their biometric signature taken as consent for their photograph’s use and release.”

Hux looks over the documentation for Mr. June; the biometric stamp is there, but for some reason his signature is classified.

“That will be all, Captain. Please let PR know that I will send them the approval for the final photographs tomorrow.”

“Wouldn’t you rather review the rest now, Sir? There are only six more—”

“No!” Hux barked, practically pushing Phasma out the door.  The instant the durasteel doors slid into place, he grabbed at the photo once more.  It’s just as breathtaking on the second go around, holding up to Hux’s scrutiny, with no traces of manipulation or enhancement to be found.  The man is _perfect_ —tantalizingly real, and utterly divine.

Hux grits his teeth.  He walks stiffly to his security panel and adds an extra layer of protection to his door.  He proceeds to stack the the photographs on top of one another and files them neatly into place, save for the one of the gladiator, which he places on the top.

It’s the middle of the day, but there’s no helping it.  Hux can’t very well go back to the bridge with any semblance of dignity when he’s nursing a raging hard on that’s threatening to burst through both his jacket _and_ his pants.  He unzips himself, sighing as his reddened prick springs free.  He fists his cock, nudging the foreskin back and forth against its swollen head, moaning as his thumb rubs up against the liquid which has begun to bead at the slit.  He stares at the gladiator, imagining the feel of those silky locks as he threads his hands through their thickness, forcing that head back as Hux fucks into the heat promised by those wet and lush lips.  His hand flies, his thighs tense, and his breathing grows ragged; he bites back his groans as he eagerly spills in a manner that he hasn’t experienced since he was a sexually frustrated, uncontrolled teen.

 

**.~O~.**

The release of _First Order: The Men and Women of Earth_ is a rousing success.  Morale is at an all-time high.  The common areas are filled with lascivious smiles and the chatter of eager gossip.  Even the woman who doles out the barely palatable rations with a stinginess worthy of the finest caviar is giggling like a schoolgirl and wearing a beatific look on her face.  Sanitation has reported the sudden increase in the number of disposed calendars (covered in unmentionable organic materials that Hux wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole), which has also coincided suspiciously with an excessive number of re-orders requiring the re-printing of another 10,000 copies, not to be available until the end of next month.

The newest edition has become such a hot commodity that Hux has taken to guarding his copy with a protectiveness worthy of the Crown Jewels (see: August, where the leader of the Special Forces wore an astonishing facsimile of the ceremonial objects and very little else).  Hux has little interest in August, however, or—for that matter—September through December.  He could care less about January; respects February; and only has a passing interest in March (Western, complete with a whip, leather chaps and a barely-there vest).  Because the picture that he is obsessed with—the one that he reaches for as he settles himself comfortably into bed, and the image which has now become permanently burned into his brain—is that of Mr. June.

The next several weeks are spent wanking himself raw, and Hux is horrified to discover that his infatuation has spilled into his days.  He finds himself constantly assessing the compatibility of the First Order liveware who cross his path.  He’s already ruled out any of the officers who work directly under his command—he knows them, has seen them often enough in training to know that none have the required height or physique.  It could be a stormtrooper, but there’s something about the gladiator’s commanding and steely gaze that makes Hux think that Special Forces or Pilot Corps would be a better fit.  It’s difficult to gauge when the windows to their souls are hidden behind their unfortunate helmets however, so Hux ends up resorting to more devious means in order to discover his mystery man’s identity.

Phasma shoulders the burden of carrying out the increasing number of mock drills, extemporaneous sparring sessions, and impromptu physicals which Hux orders to take place.  Hux walks towards the newest group, pausing to admire the height and hands of one particular flametrooper, when he collides with the hulking mass that is none other than Ren.

“ _Oooof_!”  Hux grimaced as the trooper was lost to his sight.  “Watch where you’re going, you clumsy oaf.”

Ren, as usual, is his elegant and loquacious self.  The Force-user grunts, the guttural sound mangled further in translation as it’s processed through his vocoder. Hux presses a gloved finger in warning against Ren’s immoveable chest, before turning sharply on his heel and stalking off.

His obsession has dulled his senses and addled his brain.  What Hux needs is a good workout or a steam bath—something to get his heart pumping, his blood flowing, and to stimulate that delicious endorphin release.  He heads to the gym; it’s fairly quiet at this time of night, since most personnel prefer to train in the early hours of the morn.  Hux enjoys the solitude, the ability to push himself to his very limits as he runs, challenged by his own physicality and will.

He enters the locker room.  It’s one of the perks on the _Finalizer_ which he thoroughly enjoys—the separate changing facility customized for the top echelon of First Order Staff, with lockers large enough to accommodate their most sensitive and expensive equipment, and replete with elegantly-tiled baths, an endless supply of hot water, fragrant toiletries, fluffy towels, and no-fog mirrors.  There are times when Hux bemoans the sheer number of staff below him, but when it comes to these types of perquisites, he is glad that they’re shared only between Phasma, Ren and himself.

He hangs his clothes neatly in his locker, undresses down to his skivvies and wraps a thick cotton towel around him and sits.  He pulls the calendar from the side pocket of his bag—purely for motivational reasons, of course—and flips it open to Mr. June.

Hux stares at the face he knows by heart.  His fingers trace the outline of the gladiator’s lips, imagining what it would be like to have them sucked into that sinful mouth, before settling over the man’s muscular and defined hips.  Hux tips his head back as the blood rushes familiarly downwards; it’s been a month since he’s first laid eyes on the picture, and yet it unfailingly makes his prick swell.

There’s the beeping of the keypad, the whoosh of an opening door, followed by the sound of footsteps.  Hux startles, and snaps the calendar shut.

It’s Ren.  He towers over Hux, his helmeted head tilted down curiously as Hux moves to hide the calendar with a growing flush.

Hux draws his towel tighter around his waist.  Unfortunately, it also accentuates his growing problem.  “Ren,” he says with his best sneer.  “Don’t you ever knock?”

Ren’s head continues its downward trajectory.  “This is a communal area.  I didn’t realize we had to knock.”

Hux tries to muster as much dignity as possible.  “Communal means that it’s for common use.”  He sniffs.  “I’d hardly classify either of us as common.”

Ren’s voice changes, conveying a boyish eagerness despite his mask’s filters.  “You have a copy of the calendar,” he exclaims.  “Can I see?”

“Of course I do.  I’m the editor-in-chief.  And no, you may not.  If you wish to, you may purchase one, just like everyone else.”

“They ran out by the time I returned from my mission.”  Ren’s voice has taken on a petulant tone.  “Who do you like in it?”

Hux shrugs.  He’s not sure of Ren’s proclivities, or whether such things are even allowed.  “October is nice.”  

“Colonel Kaplan?”  Ren’s voice is faint with surprise.

Hux blushed.  He couldn’t remember who October was.  Kaplan was old enough to be his father; Ren probably thought that Hux had a serious case of Daddy worship.

He tried to think back on the rest; Mitaka, Unamo and Thanisson were junior officers, Phasma was like a sister, and aside from his _idée fixe,_ he couldn’t remember anyone else.

“What about Mr. June?” Ren asked.

Hux wondered if Ren liked that type—sweaty and thick and gorgeous.  A flare of jealousy and possessiveness washes over him, which threatens to grow into an inferno as Ren picks up the calendar and begins thumbing the pages with his massive paws.  He settles on Hux’s favorite month, looking down at the lower left hand corner which is now suspiciously wrinkled, in the perfect position to be grasped between Hux’s forefinger and his thumb.

Ren lifts his head, his helmet tilting curiously.  Hux drops his towel as he stalks over to Ren.

 _Mr. June is his._ “Give it back.”  Hux snatches at the pages just as Kylo moves to keep them out of reach, the unfortunate result of which is that Hux’s most prized possession is now heartbreakingly rendered in two.

“You inconsiderate, childish—”  A fury overwhelms Hux.  Any future copies are backordered for at least another month; he has no idea what he is going to do.

“That’s First Order property,” Hux hisses, willing to bend the truth.  He lunges at Ren, fists flying against Ren’s chest. Hux’s barely clad lower half presses up against Ren’s immovable thigh.  He reaches up and presses on the hinges of Ren’s bucket, the servomotors grinding as the face mask separates and the helmet falls from Ren’s head.

Black hair spills out from underneath the mask, followed by the face which has haunted Hux’s dreams.  “It’s you,” he chokes out.  Hux’s eyes widen in horror as his cock hardens instinctively, his aching arousal unmistakable against Ren’s thigh.

Kylo stares, the eyes which have looked back at Hux in 2-D widening in shock and arousal, as Hux rubs against him once more.  “Clothes off,” Hux demands, tearing away at the fabric with his hands.  Kylo’s breath hitches under the greedy assault; a moan escapes those puffy lips, and then his hands join Hux’s in divesting him of the rest of his clothes.

Hux palms the front of Kylo’s shorts, nearly fainting at the girth and length which stiffens further from his touch.  

“Oh, fuck me,” Hux whimpers.  It comes out as both an order and plea.  Kylo is everything that the picture had promised, and more—a god among mortals, with shoulders that could hold the world (or at least, shoulder Hux); a firm chest (perfect for sleeping on); strong thighs (the right width for Hux to wrap his legs around); and a gorgeously ribbed, purple-veined, mouth-wateringly thick, obscenely long, and deliciously heavy cock, just right for—

Kylo’s lips quirk into a shy smile under Hux’s heated gaze.

“I’m going to fire that damn photographer,” Hux promises.  Ren’s cock is a work of art.  To not capture it properly is a travesty.  Hux vows to dedicate the months of July, August, and September to its absolute brilliance.  It's probably the reason why Ren stomps around so, the weight of that massive beast constantly throwing him off balance.  Hux suddenly feels sorry for himself, to have missed out on this for all these years.  “It’s a fucking crime, you know, to keep you hidden like this.”

“‘M not hidden anymore,” Kylo murmurs, brushing up against Hux.  Hux shivers as he feels that massive, velvety length drag up against his leg (hip, abdomen).  Why Ren needs his lightsaber when he can take down his enemies with a well-timed swing of his giant cock is beyond Hux’s guess.

“Careful,” he laughs.  “You’re liable to poke an eye out with that thing.”  He hesitates.  “What made you do the shoot in the first place?”

Kylo blushes; the pink tinge along his cheek makes him impossibly cuter.  “I heard the stories about you and Mr. January.  It was the only way I could think of to get you to notice me.”

The admission fills Hux with a surprising tenderness.  He leans forward, his breath hot on Ren’s cheek.  “If you get on with fucking me, I promise I won’t send you into the Pressylla system as well.”

Ren’s huge hands rest on the bony prominence of Hux’s hips, his thick fingers pressing exquisitely into Hux’s flesh before spinning him around.

“Do it,” Hux demands, his nipples tightening further against the cool steel of the locker, chest and cock trapped against the unforgiving surface as he grinds down on Ren’s monster prick.  The pressure causes his own prick to leak, painting a hazy streak against the once immaculate paint that he normally would be disgusted by, but is now too far gone to give a flying fuck.

Ren’s fingers dip into the cleft of Hux’s ass, teasing the sensitive opening.  He mouths the length of Hux’s neck.  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he grits out.  “I don’t have anything to prepare you with.”

“Second shelf.  Next to the rest of the toiletries,” Hux says, trying to keep the impatience from his voice.

Ren leans over and grabs the vial off the shelf.  It’s of the finest quality—slick and scented, not greasy but allowing for the perfect amount of slide.  “When did the First Order start supplying lube?”

Hux doesn’t tell him it was when he himself had signed off on the requisition last month.  Which coincides nicely with the moment when the current version of the First Order calendar came out.

Heated showers make lovely places for wanking, after all.

“Just get on with it, will you?”  he implores, with a suggestive roll of his hips.

The movement firmly traps Ren’s cock in between Hux’s pliant buttocks.  All of Ren’s further questions are squashed in that very moment, as he hastily pours out nearly half the vial’s contents and slathers it along his prick. He dips his fingers into the excess and begins to trace the rim of Hux’s hole, finally pressing the tip of his finger in.

“ _Ahhhh_ ,” Hux breathes.  “Come on, Ren.  Fuck me open with your fingers; I want to feel that prick inside of me before the morning shift comes along.”

Hux hears Ren gurgle behind him as he reaches around to help, spreading his cheeks.  He can feel himself loosening as Ren works his finger down to the knuckle, then adds a second, and then a third.

Kylo stares as his fingers are swallowed by the circle of pink and swollen flesh.  “Oh, God, Hux, you’re even more perfect than I thought.”  There’s a filthy squelch as Ren withdraws his fingers, and prepares to add a fourth.

Hux tries not to laugh at the irony of it all.  “Come on, I’m ready.  Fuck me already,” he says with a seductive wriggle of his hips.

“Hux, I—”  Hux hears the neediness as Ren swallows.  “I mean, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m, uh, big.  None of the people I’ve been with before have been able to take me.  I—”

Hux does huff out a laugh at that.  A person standing half a kilometer away would notice.  “Ren, you could put in four fingers—hell, your entire fist—and it still would not be enough.”  He arches and cranes his neck backwards, capturing Ren’s lips.  They’re hot and sweet and needy, and fit perfectly against Hux’s mouth.  “Do it, already.  I can take it; I want to feel you.”

The second the words are out of his mouth, Hux knows them to be true.  He wants to glory in the reality of this, to feel every inch of Ren, the pressure and burn that Hux’s own hand and imagination cannot give.  He wants to give Ren what no others had until now—the ability to fuck and take, to bottom out and let go.

“Okay,” Kylo says, feeling slightly faint.  He presses his massive cock head against the ring of muscle; Hux takes a deep breath, trying not to clench against the burn, biting back a scream of frustration and pleasure as Kylo slowly works in the swollen head.  Hux literally feels the moment when the smooth muscle that jealously guards his velvety sheath gives up the battle and lets in Kylo’s turgid tip.  A final push has Kylo down to the base of the glans, accompanied by the drip of excess lube along the back of Hux’s leg.

 _"Ohgodohgodohgod_ ,” Kylo chants.  “I have to move, Hux. Can I?”

Hux wriggles and leans back further in response.  Ren’s cock slides in another inch.  Ren’s not even a quarter of the way in, and Hux can barely breathe.  He uses what’s left of his airflow to bite out what could be the last command of his relatively short life.  “Get going already, or get used to working in the Outer Rim.”

Kylo asks no further, staring instead in fascination as he pries Hux’s buttocks open, their perfect symmetry slowly eating up every inch of his glistening, priapic cock.

Hux feels like he’s being split in two.  He lets out a pitiful wail, grunting and keening in between his cries of _“Don’t stop, don’t stop."_  They’re both reduced to shaking when Kylo’s swollen balls finally hit up against the back of Hux’s thighs.

Kylo looks down, staring in disbelief as his cock now lays buried deep between the mounds of Hux’s lubed up flesh.  “ _Unhhhhh_ ,” he tries. _“Guhhhh.”_  His hands wrap around Hux’s waist, holding him in a lover’s embrace.  Hux feels the solid press of Kyle's chest against the sharpness of his shoulder blades and his back.  “You’re so perfect.  So tight; I could come just from looking at your ass.”

“Make us both come, then,” Hux moans.   Kylo snaps his hips forward, repeatedly hitting Hux's prostate with each forceful thrust as Hux begins fisting his cock.  Everything narrows down to the inexorable push of Kylo’s prick; the responding slap of Hux’s ass; the sweaty, spicy scent of Kylo’s efforts; the hot whiteness of the overhead lights; and the tension that steadily builds in Hux’s buttocks and groin until he finally screams out his release.

Hux feels his legs shake, threatening to buckle underneath him.  Kylo spills, his spunk overflowing and seeping out of Hux’s ass in a trickle of jizz and lube.  He reaches around, supporting them both, continually pressing kisses along Hux’s back, his shoulders, his neck as he settles them onto the safety of the bench.

Hux turns, threading his hands around Kylo’s neck and carding his fingers through Kylo’s hair.  He rests his head against the crook of Kylo’s shoulder and gives into the intimacy of the moment, nuzzling the stubble which shades the angle of Kylo’s jaw.

“Hux…”

“Hmmm?”  Hux could fall asleep here, just like this.  It’s much better than when he’s alone in his bed, with only a facsimile of the real thing.

“Can we do this again?”

Hux would gladly use his blaster against anyone who dared to take his place.  “Perhaps,” he answers, as Kylo hums happily.  

Perhaps even right after he makes an unscheduled trip to the props department to see if they still have the collar and chain.

**Author's Note:**

> *Come say "hi" on [Tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/nerdherderette)


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